The Voices of Martyrs Page 10

  “By the way, thanks for letting me stay here.”

  “No problem. Family takes care of family.”

  §

  “I’m full.” Nathan pushed his plate to the side. His palate, too weak for ackee and saltfish, felt fairly safe picking at the curried goat, boiled bananas, and yams. The food sat in his full stomach. The heavy bass of Beenie Man’s “Betta Learn” thumped from down the street. Many people slowly gathered for the funeral though it was not until tomorrow. The gerriae, which Nathan likened to an Irish wake, started the day of his grandfather’s death. The music, dancing, and food would not stop until his burial. Friends and family were flying or driving in from all over, though no one else dared ask to stay with Edward.

  “Before you make good food go to waste, ‘mek belly bust’” Edward scraped the untouched ackee and saltfish onto his plate.

  “Aunt Karen always did cook enough for an army. I guess she had to, I mean, granddad did have 37 children.”

  “You mean 36,” Angela said. Angela McGhie was Aunt Karen’s daughter from her first marriage. Nathan and Angela bonded immediately since they were both in their early twenties. Her mocha complexion only deepened the melancholy that girded her face. Long braids of thick black hair framed her oval face. She possessed a hustler’s eyes and a rogue’s heart, but everyone in the family had a bit of The Scoundrel in them.

  “No, 37. Here’s the notice.” Nathan fished in his briefcase, past a flurry of Post-It notes and scraps of paper, to reveal a folder. Most of what he knew about his grandfather he learned in the obituary column. “See here, he was survived by 37 children, 139 grandchildren, and 3 great grandchildren.”

  “Yeah,” Angela paused meditatively, the names ticking off in her head. “We forget ’bout Hubert. He was a baby when he died.”

  “Yeah, crib death. I heard.” Nathan attempted to wrap his mind around the idea of 139 grandchildren.

  “Hmph.” Angela’s fork clattered noisily against her near empty plate. They sat around the table as Aunt Karen fussed in the kitchen. Edward’s son, Saul, quietly ate. Nathan watched as Saul surreptitiously dropped a piece of meat for one of the dogs to eat. The other dogs perked up with interest.

  “What are your dogs’ names?” Nathan asked.

  “Names?” Saul asked.

  “Don’t they have names?”

  “No, suh. We call ’im ‘puppy,’ an’ ’im come. We call dat one ‘puppy,’ an’ ’im come.”

  “Who name dem dogs?” Angela interjected. “Dat’s like fe name your chickens.”

  “But we eat our chickens,” Nathan said. “They don’t run around the yard.”

  “We ’ave our dogs jus’ fe mek noise at night. Fe tiefs.”

  “He nuh ’ave dogs in America?” Saul asked.

  “Yeah, but dey ’ave dem all in dey bed wid dem.”

  “It’s time for bed,” Edward cut short the conversation.

  “Come on.” Angela reached for Saul’s hand. “I’ll tell you a story.”

  “Can I listen?” Nathan asked.

  “Come on.”

  Angela told Saul the story of Brer Ananse saving Brer Buffu from Brer Snake by tricking Brer Snake into his own trap. Nathan listened intently, jotting down the story onto one of his Post-It notes. “An’ he and Brer Buffu went off fe de village,” Angela concluded, “leaving Brer Snake for de woodcutter’s axe.”

  Saul grinned broadly, then rolled over. She leaned forward and kissed him. She ran her fingers softly through his hair.

  “Was there a moral to that story?” Nathan whispered.

  “Poppa seh, ‘de same knife wha stick sheep, stick goat’,” she said, looking down at the soundly sleeping Saul. “Why you interested in stories?”

  “My mother used to tell me the same stories when I was growing up. Over and over. Oh man, they got on my nerves. Then, when I grew older, I realized I had no stories to tell. I miss them, especially the duppy stories.”

  “Duppies dead out.”

  “Ghosts don’t die out,” Nathan said.

  “People don’ believe in dem. Dey nuh scared of dem.”

  “That’s because there are more frightening evils among the living.”

  §

  Nathan tossed fitfully in his bed. Aunt Karen placed bottles of Jamaican Rum Creme on the dresser, in case Nathan wanted a midnight nip. A curtainless window opened against the night heat, allowing shadows of the burglar bars to play along the far wall. Several mosquitoes buzzed too close to his ears. Nathan flung the sweat-soaked sheets to the other side of the bed. He prayed that sheer exhaustion would carry him to sleep. The wind murmured its dirge through the banana trees. The wind-whipped leaves produced a sound easily mistaken for rainfall.

  The dogs growled. Again. The snarls usually signaled a dispute over sleeping arrangements that ended in yelping. This time was different. The tenor had changed. Nathan grabbed a bottle of Rum Creme and headed outdoors. It tasted like a vanilla milkshake spiked with rum, albeit 200-proof rum. The house was an anomaly along the street side. Their neighbors dwelled in little more than tin-roofed shanties. Edward’s home hid from the road behind a grand concrete wall, ornately decorated with roaring lions. Iron gates enclosed the veranda. Even Nathan heard the rumors of how crookedness swirled around Edward like an inescapable odor, but he dismissed them as the gossip that generally accompanied all Jamaican police.

  Nathan circled around the house, enjoying the night air outside of his stifling room. Hundreds of stars flecked the night sky, freed from the cloak of pollution. The crickets hummed like overhead power lines, interrupted by the occasional cry of “ka-ka” of passing birds. As Nathan approached the side of the house, the dogs whined, as if disturbed, then abruptly stopped. Fear fluttered briefly in his chest like a vulture disturbed from its perch. Nathan heeded that primitive part of his brain sensitive to danger, though he overrode the urge to flee as he pressed himself against the house wall. He peered around the corner only to see the dogs sitting in a perfect semi-circle. Their attention seemed engaged on someone in the middle, engulfed in the shadows of the trees.

  The unseen presence charged the air around him. Nathan gulped courage from his bottle. The figure defied recognition from so far away, so Nathan crouched alongside the wall and edged closer. Hidden behind the rainwater barrels, Nathan chanced another glance.

  The shadow-enshrouded man reached out toward the dogs, mimicking a petting motion. The dogs wagged their tails merrily. The wind died, an eerie stillness settling on the scene. Faint traces of marijuana smoke emanated from the neighbor’s home. The gerriae revelers had long turned in for the night, readying themselves for the funeral tomorrow. No traffic rumbled along the street. Nathan fumbled with his bottle as he neared the distracted dogs. Each footstep firmly set itself along the pebble-strewn path. The figure’s haunted face was familiar to Nathan, though he only recognized it from a yellowed photo crammed into his bedroom mirror like a mute guardian: a younger version of Nathan’s grandfather. The essence of his grandfather flickered in the gentle eyes eclipsed within the hardness of his face. Except that the figure stood taller than Nathan recalled. Too much taller.

  He hovered above the ground.

  Nathan dropped his bottle. The shattering glass splintered the silence. The man’s eyes bore into Nathan. The figure melted into the night as if a spell had been broken, little more than a memory captured from a fleeting dream. Nathan’s hand grappled for anything to steady him. The Rum Cremes must’ve been more potent than he thought.

  §

  “Don’t sit there. That’s Poppa’s chair,” Aunt Karen said. Nathan froze in mid-sit down, not sure if she was serious. She patted a nearby chair. “Sit down over here.”

  “Uh, okay,” Nathan tried to keep an open mind. He wasn’t conceited enough to consider himself sophisticated, but his mind often wondered whether or not his people were backward. It was bad enough that they spent the morning of the funeral fretting about the house. Death was little more than a chore that needed t
o be attended to. Aunt Karen shuffled outside to collect the laundry from the line. That unnerved him more than any foolish superstition. “But why save his seat for him. He’s probably not going to need it again.”

  “Oh, but he might,” she huffed over the basket. Nathan ran over to grab it, but Aunt Karen brushed him aside with her don’t-make-me-box-you-over look. “He was a powerful obeah man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Me seh he worked obeah, set duppies,” Aunt Karen said as she folded the laundry. “True, true. ‘Is people dey come trouble ’im, all vex up ’bout dem neighbor or someting. He work obeah on ’em, an’ seldom asked fe anyting.”

  “Really? Interesting.”

  “You an obeah man, too,” Aunt Karen said. “Yes suh, you ’ave faith, so if an obeah man tried to work obeah on you, it wouldn’t work.”

  “So, if you believe in it, it works on you. If you don’t, it won’t.”

  “Mostly people wit grudges seek out obeah men. Some obeah are real,” Angela interrupted from the doorway. She cut a sensual figure, even in her mourning outfit. Nathan rose, taking his cue to leave. “Most are con men. Li’l more than thugs. If they say someting bad will ’appen, dey may do it demselves.”

  “How can you tell a real obeah man?” Nathan asked. Angela led the way as they walked along the gravel path that headed toward the church. It was a short walk cutting through the property.

  “Real obeah men seldom look you in a de eye. Dey carry a basket or whatever dat ’olds ’is tings. Dey of’en wear a red flannel shirt or someting. He ’as fe kill a member of his own family as the final rite to become a true obeah man.”

  “You ever been to one?” Nathan asked Angela.

  “Once. ’Im read me up.”

  “Told you your future?”

  “Yeh. ’e tell me, me not gon keep no work unless me let ’im give me a guard ring. So me ask ’im, ‘How much is de guard ring gon cost?’ ‘Im say, ‘$8000.’” She bugged her eyes out in mock amazement. “‘Je-sus,’ me seh, ‘Me no ’ave no $8000 fe pay you.’ ’Im say me fe give ’im $4000 as down payment. If not, ’im seh me gwon dead in a two week time.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Me no know. That was three weeks ago.” Her laugh was as free and easy as it was infectious. Her laugh trailed to silence when she glimpsed Edward sauntering toward the church. A somber pall settled between them. She whispered as he passed, “Do you ever wonder ’bout Edward?”

  “Wonder what?” Nathan asked.

  “Sometimes me tink he did someting to Poppa.” Angela cast her eyes downward, as if not wanting them to betray her to Edward. “Death’s shadow is ’pon ’is face. You no see it?”

  “What? Obeah?” Nathan smirked, thinking himself cuter than he was. Angela was less than amused.

  “Shh. Ne’er mind. The funeral soon start.”

  They made their way to the front of the church. Everyone stood as the coffin was brought up the steep, rocky steps to the church. A gray shroud covered the coffin. Once the coffin rested before the pulpit, the casket lid was opened so that Poppa was visible during the sermon. His appearance was waxy, dehydrated. Rumors circulated all week as to the cause of his death. Some said he only had diarrhea but was too embarrassed to tell anyone. Some said he was poisoned. Some said a rival obeah man worked powerful obeah on him. He seemed so small, almost lost in the silken linens of the casket.

  The church filled to standing room only. The doors in the back of the building were opened so that the overflow crowd could catch a glimpse (and be seen). It was quite a spectacle. Poppa was a retired district constable, so many off-duty Montego Bay policemen lined the walls, decked in full regalia. People were there from all over Maroontown, even as far as Garlands. Angela explained to Nathan that it was because of more rumors. Word spread that the will had been revised to divide the farm among the family. That rang true to Nathan. When his mother visited, she brought all manner of goods and merchandise from America and left all that she brought, even her own clothes and luggage. “Family took care of family,” she said.

  When it was time, a Rastafarian—with a huge nest of dreadlocks tucked under his multi-colored hat—crawled into the sepulcher to receive the coffin. Whispers churned among the gathering, since only family was allowed to gather immediately around the sepulcher. And Rastafarians never went near the dead.

  “Nathan, I think it’s time we talked. Man-to-man.” Edward beamed with malevolent intensity. Angela shook her head “No.” An uneasy chill stirred in Nathan’s gut.

  “Sure, Uncle Edward.”

  The night was unusually frigid as a wind sliced through the lush hills. Brooding clouds encroached the baleful eye of the moon. A distant rumble disquieted the sky. Suspense reduced Nathan to halting breaths.

  “What were you and your cousin whispering about this morning?”

  “Oh that?” Nathan was tempted to breath a sigh of relief. “Nothing. She was telling me tales of obeah men. Do you believe in that stuff?”

  “I don’t have time for that necromancy foolishness.”

  “Why do you ask?” Nathan still waited to exhale.

  “I just didn’t want you meddling in my family’s business.”

  “Our.” The word leapt from Nathan’s mouth before he could stop it. “What?”

  “Our family’s business.” Nathan heard his voice, though his mind wanted his mouth to shut up. Words kept tripping from his tongue. “We are in the same family now.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Edward half-smiled, as if enjoying some game. He reached to his side and unsnapped his holster. “Have you ever fired a gun?”

  “No.” Nathan eyed the holstered gun. His armpits itched ferociously. A nervous perspiration dampened his forehead. His mind raced, mapping possible escape routes. All of a sudden, Nathan counted all of his dumb mistakes. He let himself be convinced to meet this virtual stranger alone. He didn’t bring a weapon with him. Nathan’s eyes followed as Edward drew the gun in mock-gunslinger style. Nathan flinched, but remained rooted.

  “Take it. Go on.”

  “Okay.” Nathan held the gun with the tips of his fingers.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Heavy.”

  “How does it make you feel?”

  “What do you mean?” Nathan asked.

  “I’ll show you. Feel the gun in your hands. Aim it over there.” Edward pointed to a distant hill. He spoke slowly, almost seductively. No lights glimmered along the valley. “Pull the trigger.”

  The gun cracked with deadly authority, jerking in Nathan’s hands. His ears rang as the discharge was louder than he imagined it would be. An acrid odor, like burnt ozone, assaulted his nostrils. He held the gun where he fired. Nathan didn’t know what lesson he was suppose to glean from this exhibition. Edward continued his baiting smile.

  “It’s about control.” Edward grabbed the gun at the barrel and turned it and Nathan toward him. “Right now, you hold my life in your hands.”

  “I don’t think….”

  “How does it make you feel?” Edward’s eyes burned with a devil’s luster. He wetted his lips. Nathan was unnerved enough to begin trembling. His stomach churned with imminent queasiness. He could only stare along the sights. He itched with mosquito bites that he didn’t remember getting. His palms slickened against the grip. Edward reached for the gun. He removed it from Nathan’s grasp. Nathan’s hands still cupped the air, not daring to move. “Control. Power. No fear. Don’t cross me.”

  Just then, a sound pealed in the distance. Like a thunderous snort. Rain poured from the skies hitting the corrugated tin canopy next door with such fury it resonated with the roar of distant applause. Beneath the din was the sound of jangling metal getting nearer.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Thunder. Let’s go inside.” Edward’s voice wavered. It was slight and quickly covered up, but Nathan heard it and found it comforting. A few moments later, another grunt bellowed, shaking the floor. Aunt Karen
scurried to the living room and called from the window.

  “G’wan fe bed,” she ushered Nathan to his room, “an’ don’ look outside.” Nathan retreated to his room, not bothering to turn on any lights. Outside the window was a terrible tramping, as if some behemoth trudged along the banana groves. It occurred to Nathan to peek outside, but his aunt’s warnings echoed in his head with the urgency of angels to Lot’s wife. The clanking sounds of metal coalesced into something familiar. Like chains. It sounded like something bowled over the banana trees and ate the gungoo pea stalks. With each hideous snort, the house warmed up like a make-shift furnace. Nathan sat on the corner of his bed wondering if this was some sort of Jamaican fire drill. He had come to Jamaica to answer one nagging question: Who am I? Yet, all he had seen left him no closer to any real answer. The figure and the dogs. Angela. Duppies. The funeral. Edward. The gun. Obeah. If a destiny awaited him, it had to come to him.

  The chains rattled outside his doorstep before fading into the night.

  §

  Last night seemed like a nightmare induced by a bad batch of goat belly soup. No damage had been done to the groves. He woke to the usual bleating of goats, though the dogs were nowhere to be found. He found Angela washed blood from the house walls with a casualness that stupefied him. The blood was smeared, almost sprayed. A garish display that felt more like a warning than anything else.

  “Look how de duppy kiss me last night,” Angela laughed, as she pointed to a bruise on her arm.

  “Oh, really?” Nathan asked, unsure if she was even joking.

  “Shut yo’ face gal wit dat nonsense,” Edward scolded. He seemed more on edge than ever. He glanced at Nathan and regained his composure. And his unaffected speech. “I’m sure our guest doesn’t wish to hear such … foolishness.”

  “Me love fe chat, it don’t mean nutting.”